


The Last Hunger Games

by cthulhu_with_a_fez



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Gore, Hunger Games, Katniss comes in way later, Like, Post-Mockingjay, UST, also the arena isn't the best place to get it on, angst angst angst, anyway, as in almost at the end, based on another work, because i can't write it worth crap, i figured someone should write it because the idea was awesome, no porn here, over a phone call, sort of, that one, the last Games, the one that the Victors all voted on but then just sort of got dropped, wayyy later, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulhu_with_a_fez/pseuds/cthulhu_with_a_fez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All citizens of the Capitol aged twelve to eighteen years must be present at their district’s public square at noon for the Reaping. There are no exceptions.”  <br/>---<br/>I’d never questioned the Games; they were just another form of entertainment that everyone here enjoyed. But now, thinking about the fact that one or both of us could die in less than a week or two, I begin to see what the districts’ tributes must have felt.  But I can’t let myself think about that right now. I have to hope that we’ll both come through this okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Last Hunger games.](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/15938) by ~Abby10101. 



> This is probably not going to be updated on anything remotely close to a regular schedule, but i do plan on seeing this through. Lots of death and blood and relationship angst. Unbeta'd, so if there are any mistakes in there go right ahead and hate me for them! Credit for the idea goes to the wonderful ~Abby10101 on deviantArt.com (because there's no way I'd come up with something like this on my own.)

_I am running down the Capitol streets, once beautiful but now covered in blood and tar, and gripping my sister’s hand for dear life. It was my fourteenth birthday, when the rebels invaded, and I am still wearing my party dress. Royal purple. It shimmered copper whenever I moved, to match my auburn hair. I am desperately shoving through the people, trying to find my parents before I lose them forever. When my sister’s hand slips out of mine, though, I stop and turn to face her. She is still wearing her yellow raincoat. Her pale face is wide-eyed, lips pursed as if to ask a question, when I notice the hole in her chest. Such a tiny thing, but it is pouring blood all down her front. Even through the smoke and the stench of death, the scent of my sister’s blood hits me like a wall. I drop to my knees and howl in agony, and the people keep slamming into me in their quest to flee. I scream until there is no more air left in my lungs, and then I black out, my sister’s bloodless face the last thing in my dimming vision._

I wake up and snap upright, gasping for breath in the quiet room. For a second, I forget where I am, and then I remember. I’m not in my house, or in my room anymore. I haven’t been for weeks. Not since the rebellion. I look over and see Zayne sleeping on the bed next to me. Zayne. He’s been my best friend since we were little, and across the last year we’ve become more than friends. He was at my birthday party, I remember. Not that it matters now. When we were running, we got separated by the crowd, and I never thought I’d see him again. But after my sister was shot and I passed out, he must have found me because the first thing I saw when I woke up was his face. And it made me happy, that he’d survived, even throughout all the awful things that had happened. And today we might be separated forever.

After the Capitol had fallen a few weeks ago, there was a council of the remaining victors. They voted on a last Hunger Games, the tributes taken from the children of the Capitol. Zayne and I are both within the age limit for the Games – I’m fourteen now, and he’ll be fifteen in another month – and today is the day of the Reaping. I’d never questioned the Games; they were just another form of entertainment that everyone here enjoyed. But now, thinking about the fact that one or both of us could die in less than a week or two, I begin to see what the districts’ tributes must have felt. But I can’t let myself think about that right now. I have to hope that we’ll both come through this okay.

Zayne is stirring next to me, his chocolate hair mussed and his emerald eyes still bleary. He looks at me and smiles. “Hey, Luma,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow. “Ready to go to the Reaping?”

I shudder, again considering the possibility of one or both of us dying. “No, Zayne… I’m not. If we get picked, we are going to die. How could the kids in the districts stand it? The waiting? The not knowing whether their names are going to be called?”

He looks at me, and then sits up. “Luma. Listen to me. We are NOT going to die. We are not going to be the tributes. There must be a hundred others in our district of the Capitol, and we’d only be two slips in dozens.”

I lean into his shoulder, reassured by his warmth. “I know. But I can’t help but think, what if it is us? What if we both get taken? What if I-”

He cuts me off. “We are NOT going. I promise you. Neither one of us is going into the Games. Now get up and get dressed. I know you’ve been using my sister’s clothes, but I think I still have an outfit of yours in my room.”

I blush, thinking about why he would have wanted to keep it at all, but comply. I find that my favorite outfit was in his closet, and it made me feel a little better to put it on. A soft sweater the color of periwinkles with cream-colored pants and matching periwinkle ballerina flats. I emerge from the bathroom carrying my pajamas, and find that Zayne has already changed. He gives me a little half-smile, the corner of his mouth twitched up ever so slightly. I walked across the room and wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest. We won’t see each other until the end of the Reaping, one way or another, and I want to be close to him for as long as I can. 

“We’ll see each other after, Luma,” he whispered, bowing his head. “don’t worry.”

“I know,” I whispered back, “but I’m still scared.”

“Don’t be. I’ll see you after, yeah? We’ll be fine.” He steps away from me and smiles. “Now go get some breakfast.” 

I smile back and leave the room as he turns towards his dresser, following the smell of breakfast. Apples cut up and put into pancakes, a recipe we’d experimented with for a while after we were left with only apples and pancake batter mix. Even after we started getting real food again, we’d grown fond of the recipe and still ate it for breakfast sometimes. 

I shovel down my portion, suddenly ravenous. The TV is on, and the small ribbon of news at the bottom keeps repeating the same message over and over. “All citizens of the Capitol aged twelve to eighteen years must be present at their district’s public square at noon for the Reaping. There are no exceptions.” I tried to shut it out. I can’t lose control here. I have to be strong. I finish my breakfast in silence.

Soon enough I have to leave Zayne’s house for the Reaping. We walk together as far as we can, because the square isn’t too far. We’re joined by the other children from our district, and I recognize a few of them. A girl who lived a few houses down, a boy who my cousin used to date. My little sister’s best friend. We are sorted into roped-off sections of the square according to gender and age, and I see Zayne briefly in one of the pens across from mine. He looks at me, smiling, and I cling to the hope that we won’t be taken.

I see a woman wearing a government uniform step onto the hastily constructed podium. She walks up to the microphone, and to the glass balls full of name slips that we all recognize from past Reapings. One of them full of the males’ names, and one of them full of the females’. The familiar items, once viewed with eager interest, are now an object of dread. 

The government woman smiles and says, “Ladies first!” 

She says it exactly the same way that Effie Trinket, the escort for District Twelve, used to say it. As she dips her hand into the sphere, I find myself clenching my fists, thinking _please don’t be me please don’t be me please don’t be me…_

“Luma Chester.” 

It’s me. I’m standing paralyzed with shock, not even breathing, while the girls around me shrink back as if I was contagious. I’m still standing there when the government woman spots me, distinguished by the other girls’ reactions. She makes a small hand gesture, and two Peacekeepers melt out of the crowd and take me by the shoulders. They push gently, and I stumble up onto the stage, still blinking in shock. I felt numb, like my heart was made of ice. All I can think of is Zayne, hoping it isn’t him, wishing and hoping so desperately that he could stay safe.

Then the woman turned to the boys’ ball of names. She inserts her hand, swirling her fingers through the slips of paper that I hoped would be anyone else’s, anyone but his. Suddenly her fingers snap shut on a slip, and she pulls it out with a flick of her wrist. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, each beat saying _not Zayne not Zayne not Zayne not –_

“Zayne Wezner.”

I stood still another moment, then collapsed to the stage, moaning in pain and anguish. Tears were rolling down my cheeks, soaking into my sweater, and through them I saw Zayne running up to the podium. He knelt down to the stage and wrapped his arms around me, murmuring in my ear. 

“Come on, Luma, you have to stand up now. We have to shake hands, then we go to say our goodbyes, okay? Come on, Luma, it’s going to be okay. Stand up.”

He pulled me upright, and I swayed, trying to cover my tears behind my hands. I looked over at Zayne and shook his hand, as the custom dictates. I saw the single tear roll down his cheek, his beautiful green eyes brimming with more. We walked offstage to the sound of our friends applauding our death sentence.


	2. Chapter 2

Four white-uniformed Peacekeepers closed in a square around us, clearing a path through the rapidly thinning crowds. They lead us towards a long, low building, its windows framed in a light grey stone. The library. The place I’ve spent the most time, the one place I feel happy, will now be the place I must let go of my life. I think about the books inside for a while. Thin electronic tablets that contain the entire works of an author, and all you had to do was speak the title. There were old paper books as well, made before the wars. Ancient books. Most of them were burnt and damaged by water or tears, but the pieces of story inside were so amazing. I think about the words for a minute, remembering the way they made me feel like I was wearing a blanket. Happy thoughts. Small thoughts. Manageable thoughts. Nothing big or complicated like the fact that I’m probably going to die in the next week or so…

As I think about that, I stumble and crash into Zayne. He catches me with hard arms, not showing any of the kindness he’d displayed this morning, or onstage. I look at him with reproach in my eyes, but his eyes are turned away from me, glaring at the camera crews next to him. I bow my head, keenly aware of the camera crews scuttling along beside us. I felt like screaming at them. This is a private moment, I think. Go away and leave us in peace. But they don’t leave, the cameras; they keep on walking next to us. Prying into this moment, a moment where all I want is to curl up with Zayne and mourn our fate; a moment when instead Zayne is denying me any kind of comfort in his presence. The cameras are watching us; intruding insects, clattering alongside us to drink in every detail.

Suddenly the realization hits me that this must have been what all the tributes felt like, for the past seventy-six years. Getting picked out from dozens of others, and watching their faces flood with relief that they could continue living, while you shatter on the inside and walk towards your death. I wondered how this had gone on so long without anyone ever thinking it was wrong. Can’t they see it now? But then, I guess this was the whole point of having these last games, to really drive it home to us what hell we’d put them through. 

By the time I came to this conclusion, the Peacekeepers are taking us into separate rooms. I turn to Zayne as we’re led apart, hoping he would be looking back with this morning’s affection in his eyes. Instead, all I see is his cold and impersonal stance as he’s walking into the next room over. I have an irrational moment of terror as we’re led apart, quickly squashed when I remember about the private minutes for goodbyes given to every tribute. I guess that rule applies to me now. 

I wonder if anyone will come to see me. I was relatively popular at school, I suppose, but I don’t think any of them could be considered real friends. Not the type to sit with me while I wait to die. I think that my family’s dead. I lost my parents in the crowd before my sister was shot, and I don’t think we’re going to see each other again. They never liked me much, anyway. I was never as absorbed into the fashion world as my mother, preferring to spend my time in the library. This library, where I now stand taking these last minutes for goodbyes and using them to compose myself. Sponsors like a strong tribute. 

The few minutes I have left trickle by, my parents and sister both lost to me. Finally, Zayne’s parents come into my room. I wonder if he’d sent them, knowing that I wouldn’t have anyone to say goodbye to me. His mother is shorter than his father and rather squat, the tall purple beehive of her head making her look incredibly odd. The features of her face, smoothed and shaped by the surgeons, was slack; still in shock from the Reaping, I supposed. His father, on the other hand, is tall and narrow, with shimmering light blue tattoos swirling down his coffee-colored arms. The pair of them make a strange couple, stranger still that they could have produced Zayne, but I’m touched that they would come see me. Zayne’s mother came over to me and scooped me up in a bone-crushing hug, smothering my petite form in her voluminous flesh. I guess I must have become something like family to her; she’d been like a second mother to me since I was little and the feeling had grown the longer I’d known Zayne.

“Ohh, baby, stay safe. Hold on as long as you can. I’m so, so sorry, baby, I hope you’ll stay okay…” Mrs. Weszner murmured empty platitudes in a soothing tone, clearly intending to help but only succeeding in making me think more on Zayne and his possible impending death… If I followed her advice, stayed safe, tried to win, then it would mean the death of the boy I loved. Zayne. Preserve his life at the expense of mine, or mine at the expense of his? Again, I’m struck anew at the barbarity of the games, and the choices the district tributes had had to make. When Mrs. Weszner released me, Mr. Weszner approached me from his post in the corner of the room. He knelt in front of my chair and put his hands on my shoulders.

“Luma,” he said, his voice rich and deep and somewhat choked. “I know you’re going to try to win. And I don't blame you. But if it comes to it-”

I try to twist out of his grip, horrified at the implications of what he was saying. But he was stronger than I was, and he held my shoulders firmly. He shook them slightly. “LISTEN TO ME!” he barked, and then released my shoulders looked down at the floor. When he looks up again, his eyes are brimming with tears.

“I’m not asking you to sacrifice your life for his. I would never ask that. But if it comes to it, promise me that whatever happens, you won’t kill Zayne.” I look at him, the tears welling back up in my eyes. I force them back down again. I have to stay composed, especially after my outburst on the stage.

“I- I promise.” I whisper, then swallow and say it again. “I promise that I will never kill Zayne in the arena, or allow him to be killed if I can help it. And I will try. Even if it means I am hurt, I will NOT allow Zayne to die.” Not even if he doesn’t care about my life or my death any more. I love him, and I will do anything I can to keep him safe.

He looks at me, sadness warring with wonder and joy on his face. I don’t blame him; he knows that there will be at least one other person in the Games who will unequivocally watch his son’s back. Even at the expense of my own safety. We look at each other for another several seconds, until the Peacekeepers come back in to take them out of the room. After they leave I have no more visitors; I sit in silence for another moment until the same Peacekeeper comes back.

“You and your fellow tribute will now be taken to the Training Center. You will remain there until the Games begin.” Her voice is even, but I can see her face twisting between anger and pity. Anger, I suppose, at the way the districts had been treated, and rightly so, I think. Pity at the fact that 23 children are again going to die and one will come out of the arena scarred physically and emotionally. I follow her, and I see Zayne coming out of his room as well. 

I hurry over to him, wanting to fold myself into his steady warmth, but instead of allowing me contact he steps aside, pushing my arm back to my side. I look at him, pain coursing through my body at his rejection. He had treated me so tenderly on the stage, offered me some small measure of solace in his arms after the Reaping. Why would he deny me the same comfort now? 

I can see the camera crews lapping up his cold bearing and my own confusion, and I wonder what the audience must think of us now. More still, I wonder what the Gamemakers are doing. What they’re thinking about. My mind wanders back through the footage of previous Games, remembering the various dangers posed by each. Now that the surviving victors are running the Games, who knows what they’ll put in the arena?

We’re in the hovercar now, its sleek interior strangely comfortable. There are no windows, however. Zayne steps to the side and allows me to enter first, and I move to the far side of the hovercar. Zayne sits as far away from me as he can, and I wonder again about his sudden change of heart. I want more than anything to lean over and put my head in Zayne’s lap, want more than ever to have the feel of him, the scent of him, in my head. Despite my promise to his father, I have no idea if either of us will last the first night, much less through the Games. I look over at Zayne again; desperate to see him looking at me with something other than this awful cold indifference. His head is turned away from me.  
We stay like that until the hovercar stops in front of the Training Center, a tall, sleek glass-fronted building that had escaped the rebellion remarkably unscathed by the bombs. Zayne exited through the doorway first, not offering his hand to help me out of the car. When we’re both standing outside the car, the Peacekeepers indicated that we should go into the building. 

“You will be staying on floor 12,” says one of the Peacekeepers. “Go straight into one of the elevators and proceed to your designated floor. Your mentors are waiting for you. Good luck.” With that, she steps back into the hovercar and it speeds away, leaving us outside the building.

We walk through the reflective front door and straight into one of the elevators, pressing the button marked ‘12’. Zayne is standing in the corner of the elevator, again as far away as he can from me. I face the wall, my back to Zayne, trying not to let the hurt show through. He can’t know how deeply he’s hurt me. Not ever. To distract myself from thoughts of Zayne, I think about the floor on which we’re going to stay. Floor 12. A floor that has only housed four victors in seventy-six years. A floor that has housed the Mockingjay.  
I think about that for a moment, wondering whether Katniss and Peeta stood in the same elevator as we are, thinking about their deaths and the death of their partner. I feel almost certain that they have. But thinking about Katniss makes me think about the remaining victors, and whether they will mentor us Capitol kids or sit back and watch us die with pleasure. What must they think of us? Is this their way of taking justice on us, by sending one last wave of children to the same slaughter by which their own children were swallowed?

The elevator chimes, indicating that we’ve reached our floor. I walk out first, Zayne following silently behind me. We see the dining room first. One of the four chairs around the rectangular table is full. It must belong to our mentor; who else would be up here? The broad-shouldered figure in the chair is facing away from us, feet up on the glass tabletop, and we walk towards him slowly. He gives no indication that he noticed us, and we continued forwards. Without any prior warning, he rose from the chair with a fluid grace and turned to face us. When he did, I froze, shock gluing my feet to the floor. Our mentor was Gale Hawthorne.


End file.
